Piano
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: William comes back from the war, and Mrs Hughes feels strange. Nominated for a Highclere Award.


**A brilliant idea given to me by bijou156. Set in 1918. **

"**Piano."**

Of course, it was Daisy who answered the back door to him. Elsie herself sent the girl to do it. She and Charles stood a little way down the corridor talking about something or other when they heard the small shriek the girl let out.

"Daisy?" Charles advanced in her direction, both concerned and shocked at her lack of composure. But he himself came to a halt when he saw the young man standing in the doorway, "William?" he asked, sounding as if he was unable to believe his eyes.

She had remained still anyway, watching the exchange at the door, but when Elsie heard who was standing there, lifted her dress a little and all but ran to the door. And it was him, she realised. At first she had not recognised him, he was noticeably taller and the soft mumblings that preceded Daisy's shriek were deeper than she had known his voice to have been, though he had not grown a moustache like in the pictures of soldiers one saw in the paper.

"Mr Carson," William inclined his head to the butler as they shook hands. It was strange, Elsie thought, to see someone who had changed so much beside someone who was the embodiment of continuity, "Forgive me, but I was wondering if there might still be a job here for me?"

Charles indicated that he should step into the corridor, picking up the young man's suitcase for him as he did so.

"When can you start?" Charles asked him.

He was directed to the the kitchen and, after Mrs Patmore had greeted him rather emotionally, told to eat anything he liked.

Of course, everyone had heard, William was a hero, there were no two ways about it. Letters from Branson, from Mr Bates and Mr Crawley, even on one occasion his Lordship, had told them about what he done. Saved lives by the bucket-loads, by all accounts. Shown bravery that none of them could have even guessed at before. Though he held a low rank in the army- as befitted his class- he certainly hadn't gone altogether unnoticed. But he was modest about it, even when Daisy questioned him incessantly.

"Hush lass, leave him be," Mrs Patmore advised her, handing William the bowl of soup he had requested.

That was it, Elsie thought, he would probably want to be left alone. "You mother that boy a little to much," Charles had gently warned he,r a hundred years ago. "Somebody has to," had been her reply then. But now, the things he had seen, he was unlikely to want her flannelling about after him. Though she badly wanted to talk to him, she realised it would be selfish to, more to give herself peace of mind than to comfort him. She had seen it for herself that afternoon; he was a changed man. He would want to be left alone.

But those thoughts flew out of her mind later that afternoon. She found him sitting at the servants' hall piano; where she'd chased him away from once. Some things never change. For a few minutes she just stood there listening, she had always liked to hear him play and he had improved. When he was finished, he turned around to face her and she wondered how long he'd known she was there. She smiled a little guiltily; he had caught her out this time as opposed to the other way round.

"You've improved," she remarked, moving away from the door post she was leaning on and into the room. It occurred to her that was the first thing she'd said to him since he'd come back.

She had been about to take one of the chairs from the table near the piano when he shifted to one side of the large piano stool, the invitation obvious. Smiling to herself, she took the seat next to him.

"It was Beethoven," he informed her, "One of the boys in my regiment learned to play properly and when we had a week off we'd all go to the bar in the village and he'd try to help me play proper music."

"You were very good," she told him, because it was true.

It was nothing short of marvellous that this was the young boy who'd arrived at Downton, suffering from terrible homesickness, now returned from a war playing classical music as well as any of Lord Grantham's daughters could.

He sniffed a little at the complement, taking it with modesty. They were quiet for a few moments, just sitting there side by side. Elsie marvelled for a moment at what the odds of this happening must have been; how small the chances of them ever being able to sit beside one another. It gave her the odd urge to weep. She stared hard at the lid of the piano, willing herself not to. The sound of the piano interrupted her train of thought. William, she realised, was gently pressing the keys of one of those jigs he used to play, watching her expression as he did so.

"Sorry," she apologised with a small smile, aware that he could probably see the water in her eyes, "My mind was just wandering."

She bit her lip a little before continuing.

"William?" she asked cautiously, "Was it _very _awful?"

For a few moments he just went on pressing the piano keys.

"Pretty awful," he conceded finally.

Something within Elsie dropped away, fell down her throat and pooled into her chest. She thought for a moment she might be sick. Guilt.

"Oh God," she whispered, not really caring that a tear dropped on to her cheek "William, I'm so sorry."

He smiled sadly at her. The same smile she'd seen when she'd told him Daisy didn't deserve him.

"Please don't feel sorry for me, Mrs Hughes. The army's toughened me up. It's not your fault that I went," he told her, trying in vain to joke, "Anyone would have thought you physically forced me out of the house and made me join up!"

"Oh, William. You'll never get those years back," she reminded him tearfully, "You could have... you could have married Daisy by now!"

He laughed a little at that.

"Daisy's still here," he reminded her, "And as I recall, you told me to forget all of that for another ten years, _at least_," he added, imitating her stern tone.

She had to laugh at that, wiping her eyes.

"You should learn not to listen to everything that I say," she advised, "I wonder why I say most of it, some of the time."

"You talk more sense that anyone I know," he informed her stoutly.

She looked at him in a way that was half stern and half apologetic. All those years ago it had seemed so logical; there he was, suffering for want of a mother-figure and there she was, childless. She could not, no matter what he said, escape the feeling that she could have done _something_ to protect him from it.

He smiled rather a lopsided smile at her, stretching a cautious arm around her.

"It's fine, Mrs Hughes," he tried again to assure her, "At least I...-"

The thought seemed to strike her at the same time.

"At least you came back," she finished for him.

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